Many Miles
by Wu the Stoic
Summary: Much to his surprise, Nux survived the Fury Road yet again. A Fury Road/Road Warrior crossover. I don't own anything to do with Mad Max or any of it's counterparts, it belongs to its respective owners. This is just a work of fiction.


Perhaps the cruelest part of the Wasteland wasn't that you survived, but that it _made_ you survive. Living was punishment enough, and you just couldn't muster the energy to die.

" _High octane crazy blood, fillin' me up!"_

That's why he couldn't die, or so his mind kept repeating as Nux slowly drug himself out of the cab of the War Rig. He coughed once, his mouth and nose full of the desert dust that had accumulated while he lay slumped against the doghouse of the rig. How long had it been since he had rolled the mighty war machine over? Hours? Perhaps even a day or two? The smell of chemicals long spent from the wounded engines wasn't pungent, so he knew a considerable bit of time had passed. Night had fallen and now, the sun arose again.

"No," he sighed, resigned as he pressed his the palm of his right hand against his ribs, holding them as they cried in pain. "I was meant to die on the Fury Road. I couldn't die in battle for Immortan Joe, and I couldn't do it for Furiosa."

He sat on the edge of the door, his feet dangling into the cab as he surveyed the landscape. Scavengers would smell the wreck and come soon, picking apart not the bodies made of flesh, but of steel. He had to get home before they came, no telling what they would do to him, or to anyone foolish enough to have survived this. Nux furrowed his brow at that thought and a prickly sensation made itself known. Reaching up, he touched his face and rubbed, flaking away the dried blood like rust. A cut on his temple, deep, but not serious. Just one more battle scar to add to the canvas.

"I hope you made it," he whispered to the group as he turned and scanned his surroundings. The Doof Wagon lay in a twisted pile of wreckage, no movement coming from it save for the errant flap of canvas and torn goat skin that covered the drums. Above him, a crow called as it circled lazily in the bright blue sky. Nux shifted again as he drug his legs out of the cab and over towards the ground. On the count of three, he braced himself for the pain in his ribs as he slid down, but as soon as he landed, he cried out in pain he wasn't expecting.

Broken ankle, the left. The agony made him forget about the three broken ribs and sprained wrist. He put his weight on his right foot and reached out, gripping the fender of the rig to hold his balance.

"No wonder that boot felt tight," he murmured to himself. Best to keep it on, let it give him some kind of support. He put weight on the foot again, deducing that some of the pain came from the fact that he hadn't moved it in how long? He rolled the joint slowly, his face etched in discomfort, reminding himself that this was life. He was alive, even Larry and Barry seemed to have come out of the wreck well enough.

The crow called above him once more. He had to get home. His mouth was dry, he was hungry and tired and needed someone who knew what they were doing to patch him up. Bracing himself, he hobbled along the length the rig, moving as far as he could until he reached rock. A slow, easy climb brought him on top of the overturned trailer and he paused to rest. The flapping canvas added to the stillness around him, but it wasn't until the sound reached his ears that he realized he wasn't alone.

Crying. Hoarse and weak, but sound. Someone had survived.

"Hello?" Nux cried out. The crying continued. It sounded more desperate and full of frustration moreso than pain. "Hello?" he called again, louder. There was a pause in the noise, and then he was greeted by a long, keening voice.

"Coma?" Nux frowned as he went down the other side of the trailer in a controlled slide. "Coma? Is that you?"

The keen turned into the short, hoarse barks of excitement. A flutter of movement again. The bungie cords, one swaying lazily in the breeze of the wreckage. Nux hobbled towards the cries, holding onto the vehicle as he approached slowly. In the back of his mind, a voice whispered how this was a trap. They were going to get him, and he was going to die on the Fury Road after all. For the first time in his short life, he felt the dread of impending death. However, the soft weeping that came to him now felt too real; too genuine. It was the sound of joy, of gratitude. The sound someone would make when they realized they were on the cusp of waking from a very bad nightmare.

It _was_ Coma, the Doof Warrior still affixed to most of his harness, though now, he hung low from the partially overturned wagon. He dangled like a Christmas ham in a butcher's window, the image coming to Nux's mind from a story his mother had told him so many years ago. Carefully, he made his way to the injured war boy.

"Coma, it's Nux," he said as he approached the young man. "Do you remember Nux?" There we so many war boy's and Coma, having been one of the few Immortan Joe had never found fault or disappointment in, was carefully guarded from the rest of the rabble. Coma lifted his face, his cracked lips grimacing from the heat of the sun on his pallid face. He trekked the sound of Nux as he made his way to him, reaching his arms out to touch his war brother.

"It's alright," Nux said as he put his hands on Coma's forearms. "It's alright. We have to get you out of here, find our way home before we're found ourselves." It was habit to speak to Coma as though he understood. His mind was so broken, the only bandage given to him after the loss of his mother were her face and a guitar. Lost to him were speech, or the need for it. He spoke with his hands during battle, or barks and grunts when idle. There was no telling where his mask was, and as Nux grew busy in undoing the harness, he wondered if it would affect him. Right now, it didn't matter, they had to get home.

"The bungie system kept you safe," Nux said as he undid the last bit of harness. "Kept you from impact injuries. Don't know what you gashed that knee on though, but at least the bleeding's stopped."

He didn't want to let the young man crash to the ground, but with his own injuries, he couldn't help it. Coma landed with an oomph of displeasure, sitting on the desert floor on his hands and his one good knee. He remained in that position for a long moment before patting the ground slowly, searching for his mask with both hands until Nux leaned down and took him by the elbow.

"We have to go," he said softly. "I'll help you walk, you help me walk, c'mon, mate, let's go home." He was greeted with an enthusiastic sound, a mix between a joyful laugh and a grunt, and together, him being the eyes and Coma being the body, they began to trudge through wreckage.

Now and again, Nux would halt their progress, either to rest, or to dig for supplies. He found an octane lighter and slipped it into his back pocket. At least they would be able to have a fire tonight. In one of the cars, he found a packed meal, bread and dried meat, lying on the floorboard. He had to move the stiffened legs of a war boy to get to it. In another trunk, he found a blanket and a precious flask of water. They'd need more of that. Much more.

Coma moved with him, clinging to a rope Nux had tied around his waist so he could lead him at a comfortable pace. Hanging onto the Doof Warrior was no easy feat, he had too much energy to use as a crutch, and his constant bouncing in step was too much on Nux's injured ribs. How long was this wreck he wondered to himself as they stepped around the sheered off boulder that had destroyed the front half of one of the cruisers. How many were in pursuit of them? It made his skin run cold at the thought. "I hope you made it, I hope you were victorious," Nux whispered softly as Coma pulled at the rope out of boredom. He reached back and gave it a gentle tug in return, eliciting an excited laugh. He gave the rope another tug, more urgent this time, and Coma vocalized in a thick hum before hobbling behind him obediently.

Something, just up ahead, a flash of gold, pale, like the sun. Someone ahead, standing on the hood of a car, right at the end of the destruction. They were in black. Nux put the edge of his palm against his brow, shielding the sun for a better look as he continued to amble his way forward. Coma may have had the mental capacity of a two year old, but he was _formidable_ when it came to hand to hand, as long as he was off leash and pointing in the right direction. He couldn't decide if the figure was male or female. It was tall, hair like gold, layered and falling just past the shoulder blades. Their back was to Nux, and they seemed to be scavenging for themselves. He watched as the person jumped down and then turned to face them, a look of open shock and surprise on the beautiful face. Nux's heart dropped down into his boots and he had a giddy thought, wondering how it could fit in the left one, since his ankle was so swollen. He sobered quickly, however, as Coma came to stand next to him, shuffling against him and drawing the beauty's attention away from him.

The shocked look on the blond quickly changed to guarded as he took a step back. Nux wanted to turn tail and run himself. This wasn't a good place to be, not here, not with _this_ one. He'd heard stories, stories about how this one should have died, but didn't. The Wasteland took it's prisoners, yes, it did, but that didn't mean it had to kill them. Coma decided at that moment to let out a shuffling guffaw as he clung to Nux's right arm, pulling him. Nux fought to keep his balance, his eyes locked on the blond's.

"We're not here for any trouble," Nux said.

The blond tossed his head with a bit of icy arrogance, the guarded expression never leaving his eyes.

"We just want to go around, go home… We don't want any trouble with your tribe."

Coma laughed again, softly.

"Golden youth, come," a raspy voice barked the order. Nux froze, his arm slipping into Coma's. This one the Wasteland didn't claim yet, either.


End file.
